Another Year in the Suicide Belt or Life During Wartime
Walk dog. Ruminate some more
About possible future
Tattoos. Organize hornets’
Nest collection. Walk dog.
Think about the bored commodities
Gossiping about us in the lunar
Strip malls of the night. Walk dog.
Photograph neighbor’s trash.
The William Blake Show
1
What happens stays
in Vegas embarrassed
at becoming its' own
stereotype.
Hypnotized by
flashy language that
makes you think it's
all about you.
Mostly it sleeps and is
a Taoist apostle
to what happens.
2
Hodos chameleonis,
ant cancer or
liberate France?
That's what I thought.
How far am I now
into the sometimes
adventure of being?
Meanwhile, the cat's
gone depraved.
3
The night sky
explains itself.
Chiascuro train
wreck, slippery
widget in a Blakean
nightworld. It
continues
Here's a Little Permission to Exist if You're Needing Any
At the end of a long day
sometimes all you can do
is go somewhere quiet
and become a transparent balloon.
You're human. Please don't worry.
I say go ahead and become a balloon.
It's better than being the concubine of a car
indentured to intangible game theories
and wave forms. It's not like you're
going to be a balloon forever.
First you'll be a clear balloon
in whose clearness space continues
getting better acquainted with itself
then you'll be the philosopher’s stone
an undreamed of new system of
benevolent malice, a beautiful living
intermittently visible edition of Nervals'
brave Aurelia bound in radiant metemphychosis
and glazed with the misty rain of heaven.
So relax. You're ok. Even if you're dead.
You'll be a shield, several times, for several minutes,
then for many long smokey days
a weapon you will hold knowing its uses
in your amazing bright loving hands.
You'll be a small blue enamel
box in my pocket wherein his microscopic
celestial boudoir the holy ghost of William Blake
sits for centuries understanding how innocence
is deathless, looking fearlessly into mirroring infinities
putting his lipstick on, thinking how much he likes you.
These are the invisible things my sidereal blood tells me these nectar rummaging clear blue bullets
it's the only thing that can see me
my glassiness
through this
shimmering promised
unseen silver
Only its seeing in my own dying
at the end of the sentence
robbing the process of its first
disabilities its dead mornings
Art as
new curses
the turning
music returning
the lost agonic
face
blue feathers
dismal invent
ories blue first
hands delays
that flower
bewilderdered
fraction
stilted not
wanting
teach everything
to me about being
unborn
and falling
rage
that falls
from pierced skin
in tears
abyss bliss
abyss bliss
abyss
wind ripple
of vicious subtlety
my glass
hand grenade
I make you my red broken
glass
animal paradise I
make you my glass
animal
I break it
within my celestial bare
fist
crippled uncrownable
this imaginary glass
subterfuge it is
in its' own clearness
My transparency is the only friendly disease
that sees me
its glint of
falling
it's the only thing that sees me
my glassiness
Only its seeing in my own dying
at the end of the sentence
robbing the process of first
diseases dead mornings
its own
broken eyed
infidelities
cold cupid
blue roses
forgetting
everything
Clarity after hunger
clarity after disintegration
clarity after language
first discovered clarity
left undiscovered
clarity after death
clarity after births'
first clarity
unplanned
unplanable
unappointed
first
emergency
beauty
my new continuing
animal
your dying
sky
Strangled
glassness
glass spun
in burning
your reality
is my worry
stone
road song
reality my furious
angel
song for traveling
blessed colorless
feral energy carry
this mysterious
skein of asphyxiation
emergent pearl
of closing
the closing eye
Get your free copy of Cosmicism, a book of poems by Rich Cronshey, here.
